


Head Wounds, Heart Wounds

by Star Nymph (Star_Nymph)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Head Injury, M/M, So much fucking pining like calm down shit boyo, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8618773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Nymph/pseuds/Star%20Nymph
Summary: Hawke should have figured taking care of a concussed Fenris would give him nothing but a headache and a heartache.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fenris and Hawke have been something I've really wanted to write for, probably, year or so now. This is my first time writing Fenris particularly so my hope here is that I managed to get him right--but if I didn't, I hope you'll forgive me. Even if this was a failure, it was nice, sappy, over dramatic place to start, right? (Also, I had no beta so here's hoping it's at least some what readable).
> 
> I hope you like the fic and if you have any comments and tips on how to better write Fenris, please feel free to comment! Trust me, almost anything you have to say will be welcomed (and probably make me cry tears of joy)!

“It’s bleeding again.”

Hawke paused, poker nudging the waking fire to life for both warmth against the rain outside and the miserable charcoal sky above, and turned his head. He squinted against the shadows which hide Fenris’ little corner, the dull light from the window doing little to help. The elf loved his dark crooks, pushing his broken bed to the gloomiest one but Hawke could make out his outline even still.

The white of his hair was like a halo, soft and fuzzy from sleep, and his tattoos shone dim but bright enough against his skin. Even his eyes–in daylight a dark green that turned almost inky black when he seethed swiftly–glowed a vibrate color, leaving trails of fading light when he moved his head.  

There was no harshness in his brilliance. Sometimes Hawke thought he was watching some wild but holy being unravel before him—as if the moon had touched down at his feet and took form of someone who had no idea how enchanting he could _be_.

Or, if he was currently being honest, more along the lines of _irritating_. He surely knew how to try his patience.

As Hawke straighten himself, his eyes caught the familiar color of red dripping from Fenris’ extended fingers. Blood bloomed freshly from underneath Fenris’ hair line, trailing down his forehead and his right cheek bone in thick lines as it escaped his bandages. The elf didn’t seem to notice or feel it; rather, his hazed, unfocused eyes were fixated on his fingertips, as if he couldn’t understand where the blood had come from, what it was, and how dare it be there at all.

His eyebrows knitted together as a bemused frown graced his features. He rubbed his fingers together and smeared the blood, then raised his hand to touch his head again.

“No. No, no, _no_!” Hawke said, tossing the poker away carelessly. “I said ‘don’t touch it’! You’re reopening it!”

Fenris barely glanced at him, a scowl craving its way across his face as he shook his head. “I’m fine.” He tried to bite out, but the words slurred out of his mouth as if covered in mud, making him sound more soused than injured.

Hawke groaned, wishing that the elf had just knocked _back_ two too many piss scented pints rather than getting his head knocked _off_ a mountain by an incensed high dragon.

To say that the number the creature did on Fenris was impressive was an understatement–though, in retrospect, maybe the dragon was in its right to grab him and throttle him about like a loosely stitched doll whose neck was about to give up and pop his head off. Fenris _did_ time gouging its eye out with his sword badly.

Hawke couldn’t say he wouldn’t want to bash him into elfy goo if he was in the dragon’s…claws?–scales?–wings?

Nevermind; point made.

The gash oozing with blood had been a cause for worry when the battle was over, but Hawke knew better. It was the fact that Fenris couldn’t get his eyes to stop rattling about that got him panicked–snapping his fingers in front of the elf’s nose to get him to focus, calling his name, almost shaking him until he remembered his skull probably couldn’t take the second beating—nothing seemed to work.

The split-second hysteria he felt before Varric pulled him away and brought him down to reality was enough to take years off his life.

For the most part, he had a mild concession at best. Anders healed Fenris enough to get him out of the woods, but the mage’s diagnose concluded that in order to get back to normal, the elf needed to rest and be watched for any signs of danger. Normally, the conclusion would be that he’d have to stay at Ander’s clinic for the time being but.

_Well_.

It was quickly agreed upon that both men wouldn’t desire the first thing Fenris sees after near death was Ander’s face. Being forced together for healing is one thing, but one allowing the other to care for them? Hawke didn’t see that happening.

Thus, what with his own (perhaps mediocre) healing abilities and being woefully blinded by his worry, Hawke volunteered to stay with Fenris in his manor.

A decision he began to immediately regret upon hassling the half lucid elf up the stairs and gently coaxing him (best he could anyway) into the bed. It wasn’t the work of having to care for a man whose guard was so far up, even drunk on pain and poultice he refused any sort of coddling— _that_ part came second nature to Hawke, who found the whole thing endearing if not somewhat amusing at first. Fenris was no fool; dislike of magic or no, he accepted and asked for healing when he needed it—he simply accepted nothing else after wards.

“After Care” to Fenris tended to mean sulking in his manor for days, nursing wine to numb the aches, and bristling at the sentence ‘let me look at that for you’. Hawke dealt with it all with patience and compassion, waiting for the elf to allow a sliver of help his own terms.

It was the invisible wall the two had constructed jointly between them that Hawke couldn’t stand. In the last three years, Hawke did his best to avoid the inevitable feeling of longing around Fenris. If Fenris was ignoring the events of that night—despite the glaring of the red favor he had seemed to almost mockingly tie around his wrist—then Hawke had been doing his best to _expel_ them from his mind.

Dreams shrouded in demons dancing in the elf’s form were drank away by the fire until the alcohol twisted them blurred and liquid.

Mentions of it, whether in the form of jokes or inquires, were met with Hawke awkwardly changing the subject—and if he couldn’t find a subject interesting enough to distract everyone, he’d cause a scene that was far more entertaining.

If he was caught by Varric or Merrill or, Maker Forbid, _Aveline_ peering at Fenris over his steeped fingers, exhausted eyes wistful searching for something he agreed he was only lucky enough to have only once, then he’d look away as if he was struck—sometimes glaring at the person catching him so damn exposed—because he couldn’t afford to have _Fenris_ notice and give him those apologetic eyes once again.

They walked on, side by side, as if a barrier hadn’t been formed to protect themselves from their own foolish desire.

But it always came back here.

To a room with _just_ Fenris and _just_ Hawke and one single look was enough to collapse that blighted wall.

Watching Fenris fall in and out reality was a battle. With no one to distract him in those quiet flashes, Hawke found himself falling back into old habits. His eyes would wander over Fenris’ face, down his long, straight nose, he slightly open cracked pink lips, his exposed neck, tracing the white lines of his tattoo as if they were a map leading him on some ancient vital quest. He watched as Fenris’ hair, brown from dried blood, speckled in mud, and damp from sweat, brushed over his eyes and Hawke could feel his fingers itching, begging to reach over and touch _something_.

He clutched his fist and looked away.

And when Fenris sighed—in pain, in relief, in exasperation—Hawke felt his heart skip a beat, remembering how once a upon a time Fenris had breathed against him, their legs tangled up under the sheets, when he thought they had both been happy.

Cast him into the Fade with an army of demons, he’d be face them better than _this._

Between that and Fenris getting up and repeatedly fucking up his bandages until his injuries reopened (what was this? The fourth time? Maker, how had the elf lived all these years on his own?), Hawke could say he officially wasn’t having a pleasant time.

The feeble but hostile look Fenris cast him as Hawke grabbed the roll of bandages and sat down on the termite gnawed stool next to him might have gotten a laugh out of him at an earlier time. Right now, however, the mage was in no mood.

If the elf could have processed it, Hawke would have stuck his tongue out at him childishly. But, he kept it in his mouth for the most part and ignored Fenris’ growing grimance as he unrolled and measured out the amount of wrappings he would need this time.

Eyeing it, Fenris put out his hand. “Give it here.”

“No.” Hawke high fived him instead, barely offering up a glance. He could feel the elf’s glaring daggers into him and maybe that got a small smile out of him. Jeez, one smack to the head and suddenly Serah Glow-In-The-Dark had lost all his humor. Who would have thought?

He heard the bed creaking from movement. A hand touched his thigh, Fenris using it to brace himself as he leaned into him and tried to grab at the roll like a fucking child.

_Oh, sweet tits on a Ferelden bitch_ , if he wanted to deal this kind of idiotic attitude, he’d go find Carver and tell him he had the sword skills of an Orlesian.

Lifting the roll above his head, Hawke held Fenris back with his other hand. The elf still tried to make a swap at it. “Sit down!” He snapped, almost tempted to push him down with his foot if he didn’t get off his lap instantly. The two wrestled with each other, Fenris managing to get a hold of Hawke’s wrist and, despite only having a quarter of his normal strength, succeeding at pulling the larger man’s arm down inch by inch.

Fuck, and it hurt! What was he trying to do?! Ripe his arm off?

“I’m capable of doing it myself!”

“You’re _capable_ of strangling yourself and then blaming me for it now _get off_ and _stay still_!”

Having enough of this, Hawke grabbed the elf the front of his tunic and finally tossed him back onto the bed where he belonged. The bounce from the mattress made Fenris’ head shake a little too hard and Hawke winced, regretting the strength he had put into getting him back down. Still, while he could see more blood peeking through the releasing bandages, the brand-new scowl Fenris was wearing told him he hadn’t screw up his brain any more than the dragon did.

Hawke breathed out and ran a hand through his hair, “I’m sorry I did that. Did I make it worse?”

“I’m fine.” Fenris’ grunted, his words still lazy, and raised a hand to rub away the blood running into his eye. Hawke reached instinctively to stop him but halted when Fenris put his hand up. “Your…help is unnecessary…I am not inept.”

Oh, of course that’s how he would take it—stupid half lit irritable little—

“No. You’re only concuss and barely lucid enough to keep your head on straight, you stubborn arse.” He rolled his eyes as he bit down on the bandages and cut off the amount he wanted. Dropping the length of cloth on his lap, Hawke put the roll down and leaned over the bed. He out stretched hands, sliding gently to cradle Fenris’ jaw but the elf refused to let him and twisted his face away. The quick motion didn’t agree with him, however, only serving to make him nearly smack himself into the wall.

“Fenris.”

The elf touched the mage’s hands and frowned, “I’m not…I don’t need—I am not _weak_ …”

Maker, Hawke wished he wouldn’t look so vulnerable when he said that. He wished, more than anything, that Fenris would _let_ himself be weak—crumble once, like that night they collide, and let Hawke be his everything again.

But he didn’t say that. What would incoherent Fenris listen to—he was even more of a determined bastard than normal.

Simply, he sighed and said, “Let me help you.”

There was a pause, unreadable emotions flinching on Fenris’ face.

And then finally, slowly, Fenris turned towards Hawke and let him hold him steady. Delicately Hawke undid the dirty bandages. Holding his chin, he angled the elf’s head better towards the light to see the wound as it was revealed to the air. From the right corner of his forehead, it spread up a good four inches into his scalp. It was a nasty looking cut but a swallow one, the blood blackening it edges making it look less healed than it technically was. Another day and it wouldn’t even leave a scar—that is, unless Fenris kept aggravating it.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Hawke pressed his thumb over the gash and focused his magic. A light, cool blue glow surged to life from his finger and ghosted over the side of Fenris’ face. The mage ran his thumb down, guiding the magic seeped into his skin and sewed the cut closed.

He stopped only when he heard Fenris gasp. “Shush, it’s alright.”

He whispered softly. Fenris looked up at him with his eyes casted in something Hawke couldn’t quite grasp at, yet it made his face feel hot and his heart pound all the same. He swallowed as he took his thumb away, a brown scab now newly formed. He told Fenris to hold still as he wiped the blood away as carefully as he could, tipping his head up near his as he dragged a rag over his cheek.

To his surprise, Fenris remained compliant and silent; his eyes stared down at the bed sheets as Hawke skillfully began to wrap the new bandages around his forehead. To his relief, the elf didn’t seem mad—he knew all of Fenris’ tells by now if he was—but he wasn’t…happy.

Thoughtful, more like it.

Aw, Maker, that probably wasn’t good.

“Alright, that should be good enough for now.” Hawke said as he tucked in the end of the cloth. No more blood nor sight of any new cuts. Not too bad of a job, he though proudly. Brushing his finger over Fenris’ cheek, the mage began to move away and collect the old bandages.

“Lay down. If you’re hungry, I believe I have some of that left over stew—“

His hand. It was…stuck. Trapped.

Hawke froze, overcome by the sweat break out across his body, and stared, stupidly slack jawed, at Fenris.

For the elf had captured his hand and kept it there on his face, one slender hand wrapped around his wrist while the other pressed against the back of his hand, his coarse fingers sliding between Hawke’s. Fenris held it there, cupping his cheek ever so slightly. Hawke could feel the familiar heat from Fenris’ lips as they touched his palm not quite in a kiss, but enough to bring all those memories rushing back.

“Garrett…” Fenris murmured so lowly that Hawke almost didn’t catch it.

But he had.

And it hurt.

Because Fenris—with his strangling voice and his deeply furrowed eyebrows and his beautiful eyes which refused to open and look at him—seemed to be in pain and Hawke didn’t know what to fucking do to stop it.

In his hollow of his throat, the mage felt his heart beating and screaming and demanding—and he swallowed hard, afraid that if he spoke he would have vomited it all up and lose Fenris forever.

This is what he had been afraid of.

_This._ This stripped moment.

This pregnant silence that threatened to engulf them. These scars that begged to be torn open, flooding the both of them in all the promises and desires they had been withholding. The last three years of absolute agony hung over Hawke’s head now and whispered in his ear that this could be fixed.

Fenris could have more than just his hand and his kind words.

He could have all of him, just as he should.

He wouldn’t even need to ask. Hawke would split his chest down the middle and let the elf take his ribs for new weapons if that’s what he wanted from him.

All of it. All of him—Fenris could have it all.

Hawke wanted nothing more than to fall against him and drag the elf into embrace, open his mouth and pour into him every ounce of his love—but.

Oh, _but_.

He stared at Fenris and knew better. Look at him. This wasn’t Fenris—clear headed, so damn logical, guarded by his metal and his own teeth, caught up in his search for himself, and far away from Hawke’s reach.

This was Fenris dreaming. Confused. Mixed up. Hurt. Looking for warmth when he’d otherwise push himself out into the cold. This wasn’t something Hawke was meant to touch.

So, he pulled away.

The ache he felt as he took his hand from Fenris’ lax grip would be enough to fill a thousand years of torture—and the look of betrayal from the elf made him regret for the next million. Forcing himself to stand up from the bed, Hawke walked back to the hearth and threw the dirty bandages into the fire.

He could feel Fenris staring into his back and it took all the strength inside him not to look back.

“I think it would be best if you slept.” He said, “You’ll be better in the morning.”

He expected defiance. A sarcastic word or a fight to the bitter defeat. What he didn’t expect was:

“Will you stay with me?”

Hawke’s eyes went wide and despite all his resolve, he turned back towards the bed. Fenris lay on his back stiffly, his beautiful eyes glittering like emeralds in the fire’s light, and his hand reached out towards Hawke as if trying to catch and keep him.

“Yes.”

As easily as that was said, Hawke felt his entire body break. Fenris did that to him; no other man could shatter the Champion as effortlessly as he did.

He came to him on his knees and took his hand in his, entwining their fingers tightly.

Fuck it all, wasn’t this close enough? Couldn’t Hawke allow himself this one singular moment of happiness?

“I’ll stay as long as you want me.”

Hawke looked into Fenris’ half lidded eyes, aware he was already drifting away, and smiled as he kissed his knuckles.

“I love you.”

In the morning, the sun would arrive through the window and wrap Fenris up in blanket of warm—and he would wake up with his hand empty and Hawke would be across the room, smiling as he always did while the walls between them went back up and life went on as it was.

And Hawke would wait, praying that someday Fenris’ heart wounds would heal enough to let him in one more time.


End file.
